


sinking through the sand

by gingersprite



Series: stronger for having been broken [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dementia, F/M, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-10 20:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20533943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersprite/pseuds/gingersprite
Summary: Balon told Theon his mother was dead.Balon lied.





	sinking through the sand

**Author's Note:**

> Theonsa week day one, prompt: "identity".
> 
> This was literally only supposed to be around 1,000 words, but clearly I have no self control.

The air was still thick with the ashes of the Red Keep when the noble houses convened in King’s Landing to meet their new queen. All but two houses pledged their fealty to Daenerys Stormborn: Yara Greyjoy held the dragon queen to her promise of an independent Iron Islands, and Sansa Stark, emboldened by the other woman’s mettle, successfully negotiated freedom for the North. Arianne and Quentyn Martell had seethed with resentment, but as much as they wanted Dornish independence, they knew today was not the day to barter for it. 

This day had been one of the most nerve-wracking of Theon’s life, which was quite a statement given all that he had lived through. He was there against the maester’s objections, as the wound in his abdomen was still not fully healed; but he had known what Sansa planned to do, and like hells was he going to let her go South without him. Dragonfire seemed a dreadful way to die, but he’d gladly put himself between Sansa and one of those beasts if it came down to it.

Thankfully, it seemed Daenerys’ common sense outweighed her greed this time. Sansa had kept up a brave face the whole time, her porcelain mask sliding smoothly into place at a moment’s notice. However, once it was all decided and the two of them had a moment alone, Sansa practically collapsed into his open arms. Theon was still weak, leaning heavily on a cane to move around, but in that moment he found a strength he didn’t know he possessed. Her eyes stayed dry as she buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, but her entire body was wracked with tremors. Theon didn’t say anything to either encourage or discourage tears; he merely held her, his ruined hands the only thing that kept her from shaking apart.

After they gathered themselves together enough to leave the secluded refuge they had found, they were met with the proud smiles of the Northmen and the jubilant whoops of the Ironborn. Theon left Sansa in the care of her brother and sister, while he found Yara. His sister was grinning ear to ear, and the moment she saw him she pulled him into a back-thumping hug.

“We did it, little brother.” She whispered in his ear, and he couldn’t help but grin against her cheek. When they broke apart, the celebratory look on her face had faded.

“The Islands may be free, but we’re far from safe.”

“Euron,” he said grimly. Yara’s nod was confirmation enough. “He may have scarpered off, but so long as he’s alive he’s a threat.”

“I’ve got a load of work to do, fucking hells, but rebuilding the Iron Fleet has to be a priority,” she continued. “Will you be at my side for it?”

“You are my queen now, I’ll do as you command.” Theon said deferentially, his gaze dropping from hers. Yara responded with a solid punch in the shoulder. “Fuck!”

“Don’t give me that weak piss!” she snapped, refusing to let his look of indignation get to her. “That wasn’t a fucking order, it was a question. Will you come with me to the Islands, or…” she looked past him to where Sansa was pulling Brienne into an embrace. “Does your path lie back in the North?”

Theon blushed furiously, and tried in vain to make his suddenly petrified tongue form words. Yara rolled her eyes, but she seemed to recognize what had made him freeze up.

“That wasn’t a trick question, Theon,” Yara said softly, a shadow of something vulnerable crossing her normally hard face. “Where do you want to go? What will make you happy?”

“I-I,” Theon stammered, still working past the instinct that screamed this was a trap. “I-I want to help you, but…”

“You belong with them.” Yara finished for him, but Theon shook his head.

“Her,” he corrected. “It’s her I belong with. Wherever she goes, I will too.”

“So long as you’re at her side, not behind her,” Yara said, her words purely that of a protective older sister. “You are nobody’s dog. You’re a warrior, a prince of the Iron Islands. And, whatever the hells you are to Her Royal Starkness over there.”

“She’s asked me to be her Hand.” Theon responded, still somewhat in awe of the idea.

“Oh, her hand, you say?” Yara smirked and gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder. His nose wrinkled in distaste at her crudeness, but he eventually found himself giving in and laughing, before sobering up. 

“Mother would be proud of you.” He said shyly; Alannys Harlaw had been strictly off-limits for discussion ever since the Greyjoy siblings had reunited all those years ago, but now seemed as good a time as any to broach the subject.

“I’ll try and tell her next time I visit,” Yara promised. “She’ll forget the moment I leave, but before then I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear it.”

Something in Theon’s blood went cold at her words. Their mother had been dead nigh on fifteen years; he remembered getting the letter from his father telling him so, the only letter he ever got from him. Theon had locked himself away in his room and sobbed for hours, before taking his anger out on an unsuspecting Jon. 

Yara was looking at him gravely, concern etched into the corners of her sharp mouth.

“Where are you right now, little brother?” she asked, her voice low. Clearly, she thought he was having an episode, the kind where he believed himself back in the kennels of the Dreadfort. But rather than the world becoming fuzzy, as it usually did when his mind slipped away, Theon’s senses felt hyperaware.

“Why,” he asked in a voice distinctly lacking any tremble. “Are you talking about Mother like she’s still alive?”

\---

Fifteen years prior, the grief over her lost sons and the stress of her husband’s abuse resulted in Alannys Harlaw’s break from sanity. She lost hours of time, wandering the halls of castle Pyke in a daze, no longer able to tell fact from fiction. She shunned Yara, unable to relate this gangly teenager with her little girl; she became distressed easily, confused by how the reflection she saw in mirrors seemed older than she thought herself to be. Worst of all, she wailed for her lost sons, but especially for her stolen baby.

Eventually, Balon decided he’d had enough of the mad woman his wife had become, and sent her back to her home island under the care of her brother and sister. He told everyone she was dead, rather than deal with the shame of having a mad wife, and paranoid that people would assume she had passed her infirmity onto his heirs.

Yara had been unexpectedly amenable to the move: her uncle was a good man who cared deeply for his sister, and surely she would be more comfortable in her childhood home being looked after by her siblings. Most importantly, she’d be away from Balon and all reminders of what she had lost. But Yara had been certain that her father had told Theon the truth; she had no idea that he’d blatantly lied to him.

Theon had immediately wanted to sail for Harlaw, politics be damned. He’d explained the situation to Sansa and begged her leave, all too aware of how him running off to the Islands just after agreeing her be her Hand would look. Instead of either letting him go or ordering he stay, she chose a third option he hadn’t even considered: she asked if she could go with him.

“Seeing as we won’t be traveling by dragon, the fastest route North should be by ship. If Queen Yara would be generous enough to host us.” Sansa said, the perfect picture of royal grace.

Yara’s lips quirked into a half smile. Behind her typical bravado, she was clearly grateful to see that this other woman cared so much for her brother. “That can definitely be arranged, Queen Sansa.”

\---

Despite the Iron Islands’ reputation as being a stark, desolate landscape, Harlaw seemed full of life. If Sansa remembered her lessons with Maester Luwin correctly, Harlaw was the wealthiest of all the Islands, and was renowned for its stunning architecture. From where their ship was docked in the bustling port, Sansa could see the soaring peaks of the Ten Towers off in the distance. Each tower had its own distinct architectural design, something which should have made the entire structure look hideous but instead reminded her of the imaginary castles she’d draw as a child.

Theon had vague memories of visiting his mother’s family when he was little; chasing after Yara along the tower walkways, and sneaking into the restricted sections of their uncle’s massive library. Their trips to Harlaw were infrequent, but cherished, a chance to escape from the gloom of Pyke and their father’s oppressive grip.

The trio went immediately to the castle’s main hall, where they were received by Lord Rodrik and Lady Gwynesse. Rodrik was a soft-spoken, temperate man, qualities not typically seen among the Ironborn; Gwyn was sharper, with a somber look in her eye. Theon and Yara bore a striking resemblance to their aunt and uncle, so much so that looking at them was like a glimpse into the future. Yara had sent a raven ahead apprising them of the situation, but even if she hadn’t it was plain to see why they had come.

The Harlaw siblings bore matching grim looks as they escorted them up to where Alannys lived in the Widow’s Tower. The group hesitated just outside her door; Rodrik reported that she’d been calm and somewhat clearheaded in the morning, but there was no telling how she would react now. The last time Yara had seen her mother, Alannys hadn’t recognized her and had screamed for her to leave, only to suddenly have a moment of clarity and break down into guilty sobs. She had warned Theon ahead of time that this might be the case; not to dissuade him, just to ensure he knew what he was walking into.

“Let her take the lead,” Gwyn suggested, her harsh demeanor softening when she saw how Theon’s hand froze at the door, his fingers trembling. “If she thinks she’s somewhere else, don’t try and convince her otherwise. It’ll frighten her, and besides, she’ll likely forget what you’ve told her soon enough.”

Sansa had already agreed to hang back, as there was no way Alannys would know who she was, and a third unfamiliar face might overwhelm her. But she let her hand drift down and catch Theon’s, giving his fingers a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Theon squeezed back, his eyes not breaking from the door; he swallowed, hard, and pushed the door open.

Alannys sat at the window in a comfortably worn chair, blankets wrapped around her shoulders and across her legs to keep her rail-thin body warm. Her waist length white hair had been sectioned off into two braids, most likely by Gwyn’s steady hand. Though she was definitely older and frailer than Theon’s memory of her, the white of her hair was familiar; she’d gone grey early, even before the Greyjoy Rebellion.

Theon crossed the room at Yara’s urging and stood awkwardly in front of his mother, giving a little wave to try and catch her attention. She seemed surprised by his presence; not frightened, just startled enough to let them know she’d missed his entrance. Her brow furrowed as her grey eyes searched his face. She’d always had such laughing eyes; now they seemed a weak shadow of what they had once been.

“D-do you know who I am?” Theon stammered.

“Rodrik?” she asked hesitantly. He wasn’t sure whether she meant his uncle or her firstborn, and found himself desperately wishing that she didn’t think he was her son. Yara came to stand by his shoulder, and the moment Alannys saw her she lit up.

“Yara! Oh, sweetling!” she cried, throwing her arms out to hug her daughter. As Theon watched them embrace, a painful trembling passed through his whole body. It looked like he was fighting against every fiber of his being to keep from joining in. Sansa worried that he would collapse under the weight of it all; he’d asked her to hold his cane, afraid that it would only make it harder for Alannys to recognize him.

“Mother, do you recognize this man?” Yara asked, breaking the embrace. “It’s Theon. He’s come back to us.”

“Theon? Theon who?” Alannys said, eyes narrowing as if that would make his face more familiar to her.

“Your youngest son.” Yara explained patiently. It was clear that she’d talked to her mother enough to know how to handle her memory problems. Alannys shook her head fiercely.

“What? No, my Theon is just a baby,” she argued. “He’s just a little thing.”

“I grew up,” Theon replied, his voice croaky. “I’ve missed you, Mama.” Alannys reeled back in shock at his voice; he was a man grown, but he called her ‘mama’ in the same way he had as a little boy. When he was ripped from her, screaming and kicking against Ned Stark’s firm grasp.

“_Theon,_” she gasped, and at the sound of his name Theon felt his knees finally give out, dropping him at her feet.

The Ironborn weren’t known for coddling their children. Balon had always mocked Alannys for cuddling Theon the most out of all her children, but he had been such a fretful baby and would only quiet down when showed affection. Even once he grew out of infanthood, he still ran to her when upset, pestering her for hugs and kisses she was always happy to give.

Theon buried his face in her knees, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders as tight as her frail limbs allowed. His body jerked with restrained sobs as he tried to burrow even tighter into her embrace. Alannys was not so quiet, her breaths coming in harried pants, as a keening sound started up in the back of her throat.

“It’s alright, Mama, don’t be sad, please don’t cry, I’m here.” Theon babbled through his own teary eyes. 

Sansa had to concentrate so hard on keeping her own face smooth, that she didn’t know she was crying until she felt the tears on her cheeks begin to cool. Her feet began to move her towards him of their own accord, but Rodrik stopped her with a gentle hand to her elbow.

“Let them be, Your Grace,” he whispered. “This has been a long time coming for your husband.”

She didn’t bother to correct his assumption.

Alannys pressed a fervid kiss to her son’s crown, before pulling his face up to meet hers, eyes roving frantically over his features. Though full of tears, her eyes seemed far more alive than they had before.

“You were just a little boy last I saw you,” she marveled. “I remember, I tried to tell them you couldn’t get to sleep without your seal, when the king made his dog take you.”

Pain ripped through Sansa’s heart at her words, bringing with it a swirl of emotions. It hurt deeply to hear her noble, gentle father likened to a dog as Sandor Clegane was; but then she imagined how she would have felt in Alannys’ position, having her baby ripped from her like Theon was, without even a beloved toy to comfort him, and she felt a sudden anger at her father for being complicit in such an act.

“Mama no, Lord Stark was always good to me,” Theon tried to say, but Alannys shook her head, her face twisted in fury. “Really, I was alright. I had food, and warm clothes; and he even let me train alongside his sons. They were like my brothers.”

His assurances didn’t seem to make a dent in Alannys’ anger.

“He _took_ you from me, from the sea! Took you to that horrible place, landlocked and full of ice!” she sobbed, her hold on his hands becoming vicelike. Theon winced; she couldn’t tell with his gloves on how sensitive his mangled hands were, but he’d rather die than give her even the slightest hint of what he suffered. 

“Please, my lady, what Theon says is true,” Sansa spoke up, shaking off Rodrik’s hand and walking towards Alannys. “Theon is a valued member of my family. He is my brother Robb’s most trusted companion; they were always the best of friends.”

It made her gut twist, speaking of Robb as if he still lived; but there was also a strange comfort in it, even if the story she wove for this woman was half idealism, half falsehood.

“He is unparalleled with the bow; he saved my younger brother’s life with it, twice. The Northmen consider him a great hero.” As Sansa continued speaking, Alannys looked between her and Theon with something akin to awe on her face.

“Who are you, girl? How do you know my son?” she demanded.

“Sansa of House Stark, my lady,” she said, bowing her head respectfully. Theon openly gaped at her for doing so: she was a queen now, she didn’t have to bow to anyone, least of all a senile old woman. But that was exactly what she did, and she seemed content to do so. “Lord Eddard was- is my father.”

“You have hair like a bonfire.” Alannys commented, releasing Theon’s hand and reaching out to run a finger along Sansa’s plait.

“My lady mother is Catelyn Tully.” Sansa explained, and a wide grin spread across the older woman’s face at this.

“Oh, you’re a trout!” she exclaimed. “You are also of the sea!”

A protest stood on the tip of her tongue, an instinct to correct her, that she was a Stark with the blood of the North running through her veins; but Sansa caught herself. Such comments would only upset Alannys, and it wasn’t as if she was wrong. Sansa was equally Tully as she was Stark, just as Theon shared kinship with both Houses Greyjoy and Harlaw.

“Yes I suppose I am, Lady Greyjoy- or, do you prefer Lady Harlaw?”

“Bah!” Alannys grumbled, flicking her hand as if to brush the question away. “It’s no matter, it’s just a name.”

“No,” Theon corrected, his voice high and urgent. “Your name matters. _You_ matter.”

Alannys seemed surprised by his insistency, but she smiled indulgently at him, taking his face gently between her hands.

“Yes it does, my darling. As does yours.”

Something seemed to pass behind her eyes then, and she looked around the room, her eyes blinking with confusion. When her gaze landed on Sansa, there was no recognition there.

“And what is your name, sweetling?” she asked pleasantly. Sansa faltered, unsure what Alannys would remember, if the name Stark would send her into hysterics again.

“This is Sansa, Mama.” Theon answered for her, not seeming quite as thrown by his mother’s forgetfulness. On the ship, he and Yara had spent entire nights talking about their mother’s condition, to prepare him for a moment like this.

“‘Sansa’, that’s a pretty name. Pretty name for a pretty girl,” Alannys mused. “My son is lucky to have found himself such a lovely wife.” A twin blush grew on both Sansa and Theon’s faces, and Yara’s lip twisted into a gleeful smirk.

“Yes, my little brother and his _wife_ are very happy together, aren’t you?” Yara teased, ignoring Theon’s hiss that she stop talking. Alannys grinned approvingly, pride gleaming in her eyes as she looked at Theon.

“My baby,” she said reverently, stroking his cheek. “My baby.” The shadow of forgetfulness felled her again, and her hands dropped limply into her lap as she stared at Theon without recognition.

“Gwyn?” she called; instantly Gwyn was at her side. “Is it time for tea? Septa said we could have tea once we finished our lessons.”

“Yes Lanny, we can have tea now.” Gwyn said tenderly, tucked the blankets tighter around her sister’s frail shoulders. Theon’s face fell as he realized that his mother’s broken memory had transported her back to her childhood, long before she would know who he was. Rodrik went to his side and helped him up.

“This happens, lad,” Rodrick said. “The more tired she gets, the less she remembers. Nothing we can do about it, besides make her comfortable.”

Sansa gave him back his cane and placed a hand on his arm, giving it a slight squeeze. Theon looked utterly crestfallen, while behind him Yara bore the resigned look of someone who had been through the same circumstances. 

Though Alannys Harlaw might not have been dead, every day a new piece of her slipped away. Theon had gotten some of her back, but he mourned her loss just the same.

\---

Once Yara’s crew had rested and refueled, they continued sailing on to Winterfell. They could have docked the _Black Wind_ at Pyke and hired a ship to take the Northmen on, but Yara wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted on making sure her little brother made it safely North.

“Your mother is an amazing woman,” Sansa commented, as she and Theon sat hip-to-hip on their cabin’s thin cot. “She’s very kind, and so strong. You must get it from her.”

Theon nodded, the motion awkward as his head was currently tucked against her collar.

“It’s the Harlaw in her,” he murmured. “While all the other Ironborn Houses mucked about, they always strived to build things. Make things better than they were before.”

“‘House Harlaw, sigil: a silver scythe on a black field,’” Sansa said, reciting it as if they were in one of Maester Luwin’s lessons. “‘House words…’ oh, hells, I’ve forgotten. I’m sorry.”

“‘Reap No More,’” Theon finished it for her. “Harlaw used to be covered in forests, but the ancient Ironborn cut them all down to build ships and mines, and the trees never grew back. The Harlaws saw how this shortsightedness damaged future progress, and they swore to do better. They would build things that lasted, make the island a place of beauty.”

He laid his hand in her lap, an offering; she took it, smoothing her fingers along the ungloved skin. Sansa turned her head where it rested against his, and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“That’s what we’re going to do,” she whispered. “We’ll rebuild, repair all the devastation. We’re survivors.”

Yes, Theon mused, that they were.

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the details about House Harlaw and Harlaw Island came from A Wiki of Ice and Fire's excellent articles. Their sigil is canon, but their house words haven't been mentioned, that's entirely my invention.
> 
> Title from "Rescue" by James Bay.


End file.
